


misery that's logic proof

by BlueFingers (POPP_Writing_Group)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Stuff Happens to Drift, Corporal Punishment, Emotional Hurt, Non-Sexual, Other, Public Humiliation, Sad, Unhappy Ending, Whipping, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 00:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16377743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/POPP_Writing_Group/pseuds/BlueFingers
Summary: Situation, reason, logic behind this?No.What did any of that matter?All that there is now is the fact that Drift's being punished, and Rodimus is the one who has to do it.





	misery that's logic proof

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, you read the tags. This is messed-up stuff. Forgive me

Drift’s hands are cuffed to the wall, stretched up far above his head.  His body is an offering to the crowd, as he stands there, helpless and waiting and hating it.  

He can feel the eyes on him, tracing up and around his frame, taking in the sight of him.   _ He’s submitting, he’s going to be punished.   _ They want this to happen.  Drift understands. 

Situation, reason, logic behind this?

No.

What did any of that matter?

All that there is now is the the fact that Drift’s being punished, and Rodimus is the one who has to do it.

Drift sees the reflection of what’s behind him in a large window to the right of his head, and he closes his eyes and turns away.  Rodimus is standing behind him, ceremonial glyphs etched onto his plating, speaking to the crowd. 

Dangling in his hand is the whip.

Drift doesn’t even listen to what Rodimus is saying.  He’s too focused on trying to center himself. He knows he’s going to have to take this, but if he breaks down too soon, or at all-- if he makes this harder on Rodimus than it already will be-- then he’ll have failed.

He can’t fail.

“Drift,” says Rodimus, and his voice is cold.  Drift opens his eyes to look at his friend through the reflection on the window.

It’s a bad choice.  But he can’t help himself.

“Do you have anything to say?” Rodimus asks.  It’s a formality. Drift has nothing to say, nothing that he  _ can  _ say.  

When he answers, “No, Prime,” as he must, the crowd shouts and urges Rodimus on.

Drift can’t look away from the Rodimus in the reflection.  The Rodimus in the reflection has a face held in stiff pain he must know he can’t show.  As he catches Drift’s eye, it worsens. 

_ Roddy has to do this,   _ Drift tells himself.  It doesn’t make it better.  His tanks begin to roil in fear; he’s tasted the bite of a lash before, and swore to himself never to let it touch his plating again.

Now, it seems, he’s back again.  Bound here by conviction rather than by force.

Rodimus’ eyes close, and his lips tighten, and Drift can see him mentally prepare himself.  

He holds eye contact with his captain, his closest friend, as he looks up again, and the chanting of the crowd grows louder.

Rodimus’ expression twists into one of revolted horror, and he raises the whip.

Drift is not prepared for when it comes down.

 

 

_ Oh, God. _

Drift hasn’t started making noises yet, but he’s  _ jerking  _ and his hands are clenching and it’s already too much for Rodimus.  Each lash that he brings down across Drift’s back is rewarded by a cheer from the crowd.  Rodimus hates them, he hates  _ all  _ of them.  

But it has nothing on how much he hates himself.

Drift’s sentence was 200 lashes, and-- and Rodimus’ sentence was to give them to him.  It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been convicted of anything, that technically he isn’t the one being punished.  Optimus had ordered him to do this to his best friend, and nothing could have destroyed Rodimus more.

But he has to do it.

The crowd will know if he goes soft on Drift, and so he strikes out viciously again and again, pretending that the pain he’s inflicting on the writhing mech before him is going to his own plating instead.  But it’s not. It’s Drift he’s hurting, and it’s Drift who’s beginning to cry out now, barely audible little whimpers of agony, and-- Rodimus can’t  _ do this,  _ but he  _ has to. _

He takes it one lash at a time.

Across Drift’s shoulders.

Down the center of his back.

And over, and over, and over.

Drift finally cracks, making a groan of agony that echoes throughout the room, and the crowd hisses.  And he doesn’t  _ stop,  _ he _ can’t,  _ not when Rodimus is beating him through the moment of weakness.  One groan turns to two, three, and finally a desperate, hoarse cry as he pulls-- uselessly-- against his restraints.

“Please,” Rodimus whispers, as he strikes again, “please--”

_ Please be strong, Drift.  Don’t let me break you-- don’t let me fail you-- _

“It’s almost over,” he says instead, his voice drowned by the terrible sound of Drift in pain.  “It’s almost over, Drift.”

He hates how much he’s lying.

 

 

Everything is hurting and it isn’t  _ stopping.   _ Drift has no more self-control, no more centered self, no more-- anything-- just the lash and the pain.

He can’t even respond to the roar of the crowd anymore.  All that exists is the whip against his back. All that there is for him now is this.  

He screams.

The lash strikes again, inexorable and unbothered by his pain.

_ Rodimus  _ strikes again.

Shame forgotten, Drift develops an agonizing rhythm with the swings of the whip; a strike against plating that was never meant to be abused like this, and a cry of pain.  Again. And again, over and over until he loses himself in it, until his wrists are bleeding from trying to jerk them from the wall’s restraints. His back is almost certainly bleeding as well, energon dripping its way down his body and puddling on the floor.

Rodimus is grunting with the effort of whipping him, and his voice mingles with Drift’s to form an eerie swell of sound-- the ringing of the lash on his plating making an undertone to it all.  It’s pain, and Drift is lost in it.

_ Does the crowd care,  _ he wonders, in between lashes,  _ do they care that I’m in pain?  Do they feel badly for cheering for this? _

If they do, they don’t show it.  A whoop goes up as he begins to sob, and he can’t even hate them for it.  He’s given up everything but the pain against his back, and the fact that Rodimus was the one inflicting it.

The fact that he’s failing Rodimus right now.

The fact that he can’t even give Rodimus his silence.

_ Does he even care?  _

But every time he tries to answer himself, he finds nothing but agony.

 

 

_ It’s almost over. _

The lie crosses his lips for the fifteenth time, unhindered.  He wants to make Drift stop crying, because-- Drift isn’t supposed to do that.  And Rodimus is  _ making _ him do that.  He lies and he lies, telling Drift that it’s almost over.

But it really-- it really is almost over this time.  

Rodimus swings his lash again.  He lets it connect. He pulls it back.  Energon splatters his face as the whip snaps by it.  Drift’s blood.

Drift’s sentence was 200, and-- and Rodimus’ sentence was to give them to him.  

And he had.  And Drift had had to take them.

It was almost over.

“Please, Roddy,” Drift gasps.   “Oh, god, please. Stop.”

Rodimus breaks inside, and his spark contracts, and he strikes again.  Drift doesn’t beg anymore, and through the reflective window, Rodimus can see his fangs digging into his lips until the energon is dripping freely from them.

He lashes out one more time, harder than before, pleasing the crowd, playing to the crowd.  The 200th stroke. Drift arches up against it, another cry fighting its way out of his mouth.

But it’s over.

Drift is slumped against the wall, panting and bleeding and perhaps not  _ knowing  _ that it’s over, but Rodimus is already stepping back and away, and releasing the cuffs that held the swordsmech to the wall.

The crowd erupts, booing and jeering.

_ Damn  _ them!  

Rodimus turns, flings the whip violently into the mass of mecha.  They duck, scream. Blood falls in droplets of pink on their heads and the whip lands with a clatter on-- somebody.

It doesn’t matter.

Rodimus can only watch Drift as his best friend crumples to the ground in a mess of blood and smoke that Rodimus created.

 

 

Drift’s desperate for anything, any sign of kindness from Rodimus.  He’s bleeding and limp and he can’t  _ think,  _ but he needs– something– he needs Rodimus to tell him he did well, that he hadn’t let Rodimus down.  

The physical pain could be secondary.

“Guh,” he says, eloquently, trying to pull himself up and failing.  

Rodimus looks away.  He opens his mouth and says words, official words, words that are as forced into him as the whipping was.  

Drift fades.  He can’t focus.  The physical pain may be secondary, but it is  _ there,  _ determined to carry him off.

“Rodimus,” he croaks.  His hand scrapes off the wall he’s trying to pull himself up on, slippery with energon.   _ Please,  _ he wants to say.   _ Tell me I didn’t fail you. _

But Rodimus obviously can’t tell him that.  Because-- because Drift  _ did  _ fail him.  He couldn’t take the punishment, and Rodimus suffered because of it.

_ I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry. _

Drift falls.

Everything in him screams to keep fighting, to stay awake, but he falls.  His helm hits the floor with a crack, lights explode behind his optics. Rodimus still won’t look at him.

Drift feels hands on his shoulder-- not Rodimus’ hands-- as he fades into recharge.

_ I’m sorry, Roddy. _

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a couple months since I wrote this, and I realize that I wasn't in a great place at the time. That doesn't mean that I don't think this is a good work, or I would take it down!! but I want ppl to know what was going on. I'm better now lol


End file.
